


Stations!

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, I guess small comfort at the end, Master/Slave, Ogord is the battle cry, Slave Yondu, Small mention of Rape, Whump, hence the tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 01:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13964148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Yondu Udonta was a battle slave for 20 years! And this is how he found his freedom.





	Stations!

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote for last year's Yonduweek and I never posted it here for some reason. So, I pulled it back up, gave it a quick scrub, and I'm tossing it in your faces.

“Stations!”

The order climbed down the line as the first battalion were rousted from their nest. A moment after the order was shouted there were short, helpless cries jumping in a wave as the chain connecting their group was primed and then electrified. Yondu could hear the pain building in his battalion before he felt it and every muscle in his body clenched in preparation.

 _Relax_  he ordered himself, melting against the hard steel bed. His muscles became liquid, dripping from the bone, and then the blue arc touched his leg and his body seized. He gritted his teeth, clenching so hard he thought he tasted blood, before he fell against the metal bench.

“Stations!”

A harsh white light lit up their quarters and everyone was on their feet. Nobody covered their naked bodies or shielded their eyes. There was a yank on the line and soon they were all marching out into the cold space, heads bowed as they held out their arms and were given that days uniform. Bulky armor with three clips for the battle cannons. Yondu tensed when he felt the weight of his uniform and closed his eyes before he caught the Kree master’s blaster butt against the side of his head. He didn’t flinch again.

 _Walk_  he thought, and followed the rest of his group. Their chains were stripped from their ankles in a long jerky slide out of the manacles and then they were each jumping into their uniforms. Whoever was last to put on the gear would be tazed. Yondu slipped into the clothes, fighting with a zipper. His head ached dully from the bruise blooming across his cheek, but he could see fine and his fingers worked. He made them work. Despite what he felt, he made it work. Yondu pulled the zipper up at last, standing stiff as the Kree inspected them. Somewhere down the line was a yelp and the heavy thud of that day’s last place.

 

 _Ignore_. Yondu closed his eyes to the sight of the poor boy twitching on the grated floor, and he closed his ears to the choking click of a skinny, bruised throat as he gasped for air. Maybe he would see the boy later when they were fed. Maybe not. They would likely gas the chamber once everyone was out and the oily remains would greet them when they were brought back.

There was a huge commotion outside their sleeping quarters as other battalions marched past in double time. Kree soldiers charged overhead, racing along the gangplanks and catwalks, shouting orders. There was a loud boom and the whole ship shook, knocking them to their knees.

 _Get up_. Yondu put his fist to the ground, trying to keep his balance. Another explosion and he knelt again to keep himself from falling over completely. The clips were tucked safely into the crook of his arm. Yondu punched the floor again.  _Get up!_

“Move!” the Kree master shouted. The line went forward without question. Yondu forced his feet to follow, one after the other after the other after the other with no complaint, no falter in his step, no will, no worry, no words. His sight was only on the slave in front of him, on the familiar collar around his neck, on the tender lines going down the slave’s calves. He too had been booted once and Yondu knew what those marks really meant.

Their stations were empty when they arrived. Yondu went up to a familiar cannon, loading up the first clip with a quick snap, echoed down the line by the other slaves, almost like they were programmed to work in sync. As he charged the cannon, two Kree masters stood behind them, sharing a quick aside. Yondu didn’t dare look over his shoulder, but he strained with every muscle to hear a snippet of their conversation. They were four men down the way, coming closer, and they were muttering into each other’s ears. It was almost impossible. Almost.

“…report, some Ravager warship.”

“Which one?”

“The big one.”

“Big one? What’s reconnaissance say? Who flies it?”

“They say their colors are blue. I’ve heard it’s Ogord’s warbird.”

“Ogord?”

To Yondu, the word meant nothing. Was it a man? Was it a species? Warbird. Warbird, he knew. Warbird he could hold and understand. Ravager he could hold. He could understand.

The battleship he had been sold to had had three incidents so far with Ravagers. They were vermin at best, opportunistic spacers who stole, cheated, murdered, whatever it took. Yondu knew a taste of doing whatever it took to survive.  He had no admiration for the pirates, no fear or vitriol neither. They just were. But the way this Ogord made the Kree masters pause, it made Yondu wonder. Some inky bleak thing buried deep within began to wake and he felt, for a second, something like hope.

“Ready the cannons!” the first Kree master shouted, and the slaves each pried open their cannon plates, opening the screens that showed them what was outside the ship. The black void beyond their hull was full of a huge war ship. Bigger than Yondu had ever seen. He felt something tingle down his spine.

 _Breathe_.

“Aim!” he yelled.

Yondu lined up the sights as ordered, red crosshairs picking out a yellow panel on the war ship. Something small but vital looking. He was, under necessity, a decent shot. Not perfect by any means, but, then again, perfection was just as bad as failure. Perfection got you noticed by the masters. Perfection got you plucked out of your cell in the middle of the night and returned the next morning wasted, ruined, weeping. Perfection was booted, was held down, was kept until it was all used up.

 _Breathe_.

The cannon chirped helpfully as his target was locked. The other cannons sang their songs and the Kree looked up and down his line. Something small. Something vital. Something almost important, enough to make them happy but not proud or impressed. That’s all he had to do.

 _Breathe_.

The Kree hesitated and they looked to one another. Yondu took his eyes off his target for a second to see what had them shaken. The sky. The sky! They sky was filled with M-ships of different colors, a whole tapestry of them. They swarmed and covered the views completely, too many to count. The Kree took a step back and one of them finally shouted, “Fire!”

But they hesitated.

Fifty slaves. A hundred slaves. All around them, there was a pause as the swarm from Ogord’s ship circled and there was silence. They hesitated. Yondu stared up at the M-ships, his eyes burning unpleasantly at the edges.

“Ogord,” he whispered and they opened fire.

The battleship rocked violently off its axis, throwing people towards the walls and off those perilous catwalks. A Kree slaver growled nearby and shot the slave in front of him, the back of that slave’s head open, showing green viscera, an unsightly blossom that slipped easily from view. Another day. Another body on the ground. Another obstacle to step over. Yondu stared as he watched a slaver pick out their closest slave and fire into the back of their skull. Another. They were shouting something so far off, so muffled by the commotion, demanding them to fight, demanding of them blood, demanding of them perfection, demanding of them their soul. Like they had one to spare. A kree shouted. Fired. Another slave gone.

“Ogord,” Yondu whispered again, his body humming as he watched the slavers move down the line.

They got one slave to turn and begin firing their cannon. Someone was collapsed on the floor, sobbing, holding their hands up and begging for mercy. Stupid, really, to beg. The Kree shot them in the face and moved on. The ship rocked again and they all caught themselves, Yondu holding onto the cannon behind him. Something sparked overhead and he imagined they were breached, if temporarily, before a backup bulkhead slid into place. He stared up at a fire rippling across the ceiling when the Kree stood in front of him, barrel to the bridge of his nose.

“Turn and shoot,” the Kree commanded. Yondu stared past the blaster barrel at the ugly face. He stood slowly, and looked back down the line to his right. There were only three slaves from his battalion who were working the cannons. The rest were listless on the floor. He looked to his left, and watched a Kree shoot a woman in the throat, a fountain spewing from the open wound. “Turn and _shoot_.”

Yondu reached behind him for the cannon, nodding as he did, when the ship bucked. The hull rippled white and then yellow and then red in front of them. The Kree stared up at the mass of bubbling metal, his jaw hanging loose when Yondu clenched his fist.

“Ogord,” he muttered, jaw tight, before he barreled into the Kree master. He knocked the blaster clean from his hand, taking no time to jump after it. There was already a hand at his throat and Yondu jerked forward, sinking his teeth into a nose, a cheek, tearing away as much flesh as he could fit in his mouth. He jabbed a finger into the Kree’s eye socket, and felt warm wash over him as the Kree fell to the floor, twitching, fighting, but growing weaker.

“Ogord!” Yondu screamed, his own battle cry, the sound of his hope, the password to his rage, as he leapt after the next slaver, taking them out at the knees and clawing at their face. He bit whatever patch of skin he could find and he clawed at anything soft enough to tear away. Someone put hands on him but he jerked away, snapping his jagged teeth at whatever trailed towards him, drinking in blood. And whenever he managed to take one out, he shouted the only word he cared for anymore. The one word he knew, since nobody there spoke Centaurian and didn’t bother to teach him anything else. He chanted it, counting off his kills. “Ogord! Ogord! Ogord!”

-

It didn’t take long to rip through the ship. It was small for a battleship and had been out in the void long enough that they were fresh out of supplies, barely limping along. Captain had picked it after they followed a crew of slavers selling some of the stolen orphan Gvolo. Say what you will, the Ravagers don’t deal in kids. And the Captain ain’t the kind to stand around and watch kids get pulled into the slaver ring neither. He was glad to send the order out and elated once they had word the ship was paralyzed. It hurt to lose so many slaves in the action, but just knowing at least one of these Kree ships was destroyed put his mind at ease. The crew came through and killed every last battle slaver they could find, but it was Martinex who first noticed a bloody blue mess shivering near a cannon. The poor thing was emaciated, damn near dead.

“Hey,” he crooned down at the thing, careful not to touch the ugly looking wound carved out of the top of his head. “Hey, you alive?”

“Ogord,” the boy muttered, almost delirious. He spat out the word like he spat out blood.

“Ogord?” asked Martinex. “Well, looks like Captain’s got a fan. Can you stand?”

“Ogord,” the slave answered, his eyes fluttering. He pawed feebly at the ground next to him, reaching for something. Martinex saw a blaster nearby and decided he didn’t need a half-dead/half-delusional slave pulling a weapon on him. Instead, he put his own hand on the boy’s and flooded himself with a pleasant warmth. The slave gripped Martinex tighter.

“That’s it,” said Martinex, kneeling with him. “That’s it. We’re taking you out of here. You’re safe.”

“Ogord.”

“Yeah,” said Martinex and laughed. “Yeah, you can see him, too. Man, he’ll be tickled to hear he has an admirer.”

Yondu curled up closer to the warmth, letting himself drift off despite everything he had ever learned. It was his first kindness, this hard, shiny man who spoke like wind through crystal, who shared his warmth with a free will. He wasn’t even aware of being picked up and carried off the battleship, his only home since he could remember. For the first time, he slept. Really slept, unaware that the Starhawk Ogord was there beside him, looking over Martinex’s shoulder.

“Good. Good work, son,” he said, his voice warm, his voice hot through the dark of Yondu’s dreams. _Son_.


End file.
